


Stitching Princes

by Esca



Category: Homestuck
Genre: I'm Going to Hell, M/M, delicious grape jelly everywhere, help me i can't stop writing them, kurloz you're a mess you filthy prince, omfg tongueless bj, rippin' out yer stitches princey, wat is wrong with me maaam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-15 03:26:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esca/pseuds/Esca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Church is in session, and it's time for Kurloz to give his Messiah the proper dues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stitching Princes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [poopinthemeat.tumblr.com](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=poopinthemeat.tumblr.com).



**_Pluck._ **

**_Pluck._ **

“Gonna tear them motherfuckin’ threads just like I’ll up and rip at your heartstrings. Gonna feed you on truth and the wicked ways and then I’m gonna shred you to pieces. Gonna make you _ALL MINE SWEET PRINCEY,”_ Gamzee crooned softly, hooking a claw behind the little black stitches in Kurloz’s lips and pulling viciously with a toothy smirk, the warbled, pained noise his ancestor issued him as he ripped the string right through the tender flesh of his painted lips satisfying his never-ending lust for blood, the pain of others. _“ALL MOTHERFUCKING MINE.”_

The last time he’d seen indigo flow like that was when his wicked kittysis slashed his face. His grin widened and his fingertips twitched in the urge to rake his nails across Kurloz's face in mimicry of the faded scars on his profile, see more of that pretty palette, mark him in the fitting image of his most bitchtits of Gods. “Get on your motherfucking knees, brother. Your Messiah wants to know the extent of your faith in his mirthful fuckin’ name almighty.”

Even when his lips were being torn to shreds, his loyalty was never-wavering. Kurloz was the epitome of the perfect, just follower, righteous and unswayable in his beliefs even in death.

Too bad he was so naive. He needed to be schoolfed a little on the ways. And ain’t nobody else good enough to be delivering it to him better than the Mirthful Messiah himself.

“Time for some fuckin’ church. But first... Gotta be up and makin’ you _most presentable_ for your Messiah’s good word.”

Gamzee leaned down and crushed his lips to Kurloz’s, his teeth ripping and prying at the remaining stitches and tearing them until his mouth was naught but a bloody, torn mess. Prying his jaw open wide with his thumb and index finger, he used his free hand to fish out his half-hard bulge, not even missing a beat when the older Capricorn recoiled and moved to elude him. “You ain’t going _NOWHERE, ANCESTOR MINE._ You haven’t even done prayed yet.”

Literally holding his mouth open, Gamzee sunk his writhing bulge inside of Kurloz’s tongueless orifice, hips settling into an uneven, punishing rhythm that was no doubt unpleasant and uncomfortable for the mute troll, given his furrowed eyebrows and the little sounds he was making as he braced his palms against the other’s thighs, hands pushing weakly in vain efforts to get him to pause in his assault on his mutilated lips.

_Oh no, no, can’t stop, won’t stop today sweet angel baby of death come double._

He made another pained noise as a clawed hand found its way into his curled, tangled mass of hair and pulled ruthlessly, Gamzee’s breathing coming on harsher and heavier as indigo blood spilled from his bottom lip, his razor-sharp teeth baring into the weak flesh in efforts to muffle his groans. A particularly harsh jerk of his hips drove his bulge into Kurloz’s throat, the writhing organ making him choke and the resulting tightening of the elder's windpipe forcing a staggered moan from the pit of Gamzee’s chest. “Mother _FUCK.”_

A rough pound of a clenched fist on his leg made him look down, and he pulled out in disgust as Kurloz hunched over and retched up a mixture of saliva, bile, and indigo body fluids. Grasping him roughly by the chin when he’d gotten control over himself again and was inhaling normally, if not a bit desperately, Gamzee bore his gaze into dead, listless white and smirked.

Kurloz doesn’t have any time to register what’s happening before he’s pulled to his feet by his hair and slammed face-first against the wall. Gamzee doesn’t let a little thing like a height difference get in his way--he’s pressed up firmly against him, and Kurloz can feel his bulge come back to life within moments, feel it writhe against his backside and stain his pants with genetic material. He’s not stupid--he knows the Messiah’s train of thought--and so he struggles, tries to get away once more.

This wasn’t the kind of ‘service’ he’d been expecting to give to the Bard of Rage in order to help him perform their lord’s mirthful fuckin’ work. But no matter the amount of sweeps difference between them, Gamzee is stronger--he’s alive, he’s not been sentient. Even as he writhes and makes noises of displeasure, of denial, he’s still divested of his lower garments. If he were alive through all of this, not dead as he was, no doubt he’d be burning up indigo from horror and humiliation.

“Still ain’t got no motherfuckin’ rage to be had, Princey mine. Gonna treat you like the pail you are. Don’t worry-- _I’LL MAKE SURE IT AIN’T GOOD FOR YOU.”_

The Messiah isn’t lying. He speaks his truth and he forces it onto him. Kurloz feels nothing but pain and agony and he knows that if he had a tongue he’d have screamed himself raw. He’s reduced to guttural, choked sounds as the other Capricorn violates his waste chute with his bulge, in and out and in and out _can’t stop won’t stop going to FUCK YOU SO GOOD make you mine. YOU’RE MOTHERFUCKING MINE._

Eventually he stops fighting and struggling. The more he does, he comes to find the more it hurts. He is still, he silently begs the angels of double death for this to be over. But Gamzee is content to take his time with Kurloz’s body, map out every inch of skin and memorize it, know it like no other. He digs his claws into the soft flesh of his shame globes and blood draws up underneath, staining the keratin dark indigo. His thrusts are brutal, violent, calculating. There’s purpose behind them. He’s not wasteful in his movements, the perfect pariah of their shared caste. It is begrudgingly easy for Kurloz to see why his descendant is still alive despite his poor mental state. He is the Messiah, the one unblinded by the wicked ignorance that blights their world.

Gamzee tears the elder’s shirt to shreds with those claws, and his razor teeth are leaving afterthoughts as he bites voraciously into Kurloz’s toughened troll skin wherever he can reach without having to stand on the tips of his toes. He peppers the other’s shoulders and collarbone with teeth marks that drip blood in slow rivulets, and a malevolent purr escapes his throat as he jerks his hips faster, harder, purposely aiming for a certain spot deep inside Kurloz that will make him thrash, make him rage proper like his namesake. “I wanna see you, Princey. Show me that motherfuckin’ indigo rage, baby mine.”

Fuck, but he wants to rage. Kurloz can sense the spades in his eyes, even when his body starts to respond more favorably. But even he knows it would be sin to lash out against the Messiah. He buries his face against the cold of the wall, the temperature difference against his heated skin the only comfort he feels as he makes little keening noises in the back of his throat, his body a motherfucking traitor of the worst kind.

_Sweet little Prince of Rage, fucking enjoying getting violated. You’d ask for death a second time over if it meant saving a little face, wouldn’t you?_

Gamzee doesn’t even give him the luxury of a bucket--he _is_ the bucket, and Kurloz visibly shudders as he feels his waste chute filled with thick, sticky indigo genetic material. Once his descendant is finished emptying himself into him, Kurloz is tossed to the side, but not before another harsh _“MINE”_ is breathed against his ear. Gamzee’s bulge retreats back into its sheath, spent and satisfied, and he doesn’t even bother with the niceties of getting his ancestor off.

No, he simply fixes his clothes and jams his hands in the pockets of his polka-dotted pants and walks off, like nothing had ever even transpired.

_A-MOTHERFUCKIN’-MEN._

_CHURCH IS ADJOURNED._

And as the Prince is forced to relieve himself of his burden alone, bleeding, torn-up, and looking for all intensive purposes a bitch in every way another can be made a bitch, he feels that familiar inkling of pure, uncompromised anger in the back of his head, tinting his eyes purple and making him crave violence and bloodied walls and sweet special stardust all melded together with the finest of secret miracles.

**Make him pay.**

**Make him PAY.**

It's not his time anymore. He’s more than aware that he’s dead. But if their lord were to find out he had one less Rage player on his side, well....

_**#HONK #:o) #WHOOPS MY BAD #‘ACCIDENTAL’ DEATH #ALL HAIL THE MOTHERFUCKIN’ PRINCE OF RAGE** _

**Author's Note:**

> HoNk hOnK thanks for reading! :o)


End file.
